


Orange Cinnamon Tea

by compo67



Series: It Takes Verse [3]
Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Beta Misha, Domestic, Drabble, F/M, Falling In Love, Feels, Happy Ending, Past Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Post-Series, Slice of Life, Timestamp, Werecats
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-20
Updated: 2015-07-20
Packaged: 2018-04-10 08:09:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4383998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/compo67/pseuds/compo67
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eight months have passed since settling into the Pride. Winter rains hit the Pride, causing betas to work overtime. When Misha returns to his residence, he understands that he's home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Orange Cinnamon Tea

**Author's Note:**

> This is a timestamp following "Your Law of Gravity," the sequel to "It Takes a lot of Water." Be sure you've read those or this won't make much sense.

An hour before dawn, Misha comes in from a tempest.

Outside, streaks of white, turbulent rain mar the once tranquil cobalt night. Matted, Misha’s fur hangs in clumps from his side and at his mouth. This rain is pelting and unforgiving. No more can be done until it passes. After stepping in, he sits in the doorway, maintaining his tail close to him. He remains on alert and tries not to make a mess of the floor.

Despite his protests in the form of huffs and whiskers twitching, Nicky leaves her place at the kitchen doorway. She heard the screen door open. Now, she silently pads over to the stove.

Charlie is sleeping.

As long as they are quiet, she doesn’t mind being up.

She never minds being up for either of them.

Starting a fire is simple with the availability of matches. She coaxes a spark into a strong, steady flame and places a kettle full of fresh, clean water over it. Done, she brings him one of the larger towels. He hesitates. He went out nude, preferring it in this form, and is unprepared for her to see him. The plan had been to slip in unnoticed, as he continuously does.

Tonight, the storm was loud.

Every beta was called forth by the Alpha and put to work, the Alpha and his beta alongside them. Temporary dams and walls were set up in the forest and at the lakeside to try and prevent flooding in the Pride. An older beta and omega couple on the far eastern border had a section of their roof cave in. Miss Deb was there to oversee the move for the couple and their cubs; they are staying with the Alpha through the night.

A team of four betas patched the damaged roof up as best they could, pelted with icy rain the entire time. Misha stood by, on watch, as Jensen, Gannon, Jeff, and the young beta Augustus completed this task. A more thorough job will be done in the morning.  

Throughout the Pride, Misha marched on in mud, sludge, and puddles of bitter, biting water.

And now, fortuitously under a secure roof, he shifts forms into the folds of a warm, soft towel.

He saw Jensen to his residence first, catching a glimpse of Jared, who was awake and waiting.

Just as she was.

She is nervous.

Not one glance courses over to his most intimate parts, giving him privacy and respect, though she makes sure he is comfortable. Her long black hair loose, she flips a silky curtain of it over her shoulder as she checks on the kettle. The sash tied around her robe drapes in a way that accents the generous curves of her form.

Now he is being inappropriate.

Misha sighs in his chair and begins drying off. A moment later, she hands him a mug of tea—orange cinnamon, his favorite.

The steam of it rises in curls over his face. She lights a small candle on the table and moves it closer to him. Its glow remains as comforting as her presence. Not a single words needs to be said. Green eyes shine in contemplation. A coral flush spreads over her lovely face as he sips and nods in thanks.

Eyes closed, Misha listens to the rain.

Not a minute later, she reaches over the table and places her hand over his. What a contrast, Misha marvels, hardly flinching. He remembers the first time he wanted that to happen, in a world unlike this one, where chains once lay heavy over her throat. All he had wanted was to make things better for her.

Nicky made things better for herself.

There are days when she will almost lounge in the marmalade sun, stretched out and purring. And there are days when she will hide from the sun, preferring dark, cool spaces within their residence, pain clearly etched in her features. Those are days when he must come to her, seeking her out in orchid shadows, murmuring what lines of song and poetry he can remember from his previous line of work.

Inside this residence, there are three rooms with ample space for their collective belongings. Not that they arrived with much or have amassed an excess since, but after eight months, the residence still looks new. She keeps it tidy, balancing the house as well as an energetic two year old and Misha’s own needs. He doesn’t ask for much, or at least, he tries his best not to. With more and more time spent in his shifted form, he has lessened much need for laundry. It’s easier this way for both of them.

Traveling the evergreen terrain of these lands occurs more efficiently on four paws.

But sitting with her, even in dripping silence, is best with two hands.

He threads his fingers through hers, so she knows that despite his resting state, his attention is hers. Opening his eyes, she gives his hand a squeeze.

“Your tea,” she prompts softly. Her fingers are long and elegant in comparison to his, which he has always found stubby and round.

He gave her and Charlie the largest room in the residence.  

And he built a bed for them, with help of course. At a gradual pace, she has moved in, though their dwelling remains a far cry from the luxurious, sprawling estate she used to call home. He’s asked her if she misses it; honest in her own way, she’s told him it’s the baths she thinks of the most often. She misses hours submerged in water warmed by heated tiles, afterwards slipping into a silk robe and…

Her descriptions always stopped there.

Rain trots against the window panes, steady and unyielding.

Misha picks up the mug with his free hand. He can’t help the sigh that escapes him as tea fills up the empty, cold spaces inside of him. There is more work to do in a few hours’ time. Recovery from the deluge will require considerable effort, though Misha is not unwilling. He has enjoyed remaining on the ground for an extended period of time. It has done him well; he’d like to say the same for his neighbor, who spends his days out on the lake or patrolling the coast. Their coats have changed to reflect their time in the sun.

Lost in steam and a winding trail of thoughts, Misha relaxes into the blanket over his shoulders and the warm hand gently clasped around his.

Outside, the storm has barely stopped.

Inside, the storm yields.

Everything quiets down when Nicky speaks.

“You are a good beta,” she says, her voice as lush as the steam curling from the mug she poured.

Compliments from omegas to betas are frequently regarded as the highest form of praise. Even a positive statement from the Alpha cannot compare to the spoken happiness of an omega. For an omega to do so, they must feel cared for, provided for, and secure in their beta’s ability to represent their union with pride and honor.

She would not be with him if he was any less than worthy.

Misha finds great comfort in that.

And in all the things she does not say because there is no need to state them out loud.

All that fails him is his reply. How could he express to her the same praise? How could any beta ever form the words to truly do an omega justice? Where does he find the phrases, the statements, the descriptions to tell her how grateful he is for her care? For the gentle pushes she gives him to be more sociable with other betas throughout the Pride, for the hours and hours of conversation they have regarding the past, present, and future, for the companionship he feels whenever she is near, though they might not even speak a word… how can he, in this simmering moment, tell her he is glad she stopped thanking him for watching Charlie for a moment, how she stopped serving him first at every meal, how she gradually began humming to herself in the mornings again, how happy he is when she and Charlie sleep in, curled up together in the bed he made for them.

Some of the most productive moments in Misha’s days involve sitting in front of the fireplace, Charlie in the vee of his legs, and Nicky reading to them from a storybook about cherished, brave omegas.

How could he possibly thank her for that?

Worry must line his face.

Standing, she slips her hand out of his and goes to the tea pot. She brings it over and refills his mug.

“Bed time,” she whispers, patting his shoulder. “You need to rest.”

Several hours of rest eventually lead to being woken up by the cheerful laughter of the smallest inhabitant within these walls. The first few minutes of Misha’s day will include Charlie climbing into his bed, giggling and squealing in pure delight as Misha scoops him close and presses scratchy kisses onto chubby, rosy cheeks. Their fun will be interrupted by the announcement of breakfast, though Nicky will make an exception and bring the meal to them. She will then make another exception and join them, despite the crumbs that fall onto the sheets.

She will kiss syrup and jam off of Charlie’s cheeks.

And she will kiss coffee and syrup off of Misha’s lips.

For now, as he stands, still slightly damp from rain, she kisses him once.

An orange-cinnamon sigh from him filters into her.

Then she smiles.

And slips her hand into his again.

**Author's Note:**

> I missed this verse. I know it's not the main J2 pairing, but i love these two together. Nicky remains one of my favorite OC's. I'm so happy to write these two. 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed the drabble!


End file.
